


The Ties that Bind

by ariel2me



Series: House Seaworth [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allard Seaworth, Davos Seaworth’s second son, visiting his girl in Braavos, while delivering the letters announcing Stannis Baratheon’s claim to the Iron Throne. Reflecting on the Stannis-Davos relationship, and the Seaworth brothers. Based on these parts in A Clash of Kings and A Storm of Swords:</p>
<p>“I mean to use your second son as well. He will take Lady Marya across the Narrow Sea, to Braavos and the other Free Cities, to deliver other letters to the men who rule there. The world will know of my claim, and of Cersei’s infamy.”</p>
<p>"Dale would never give his wife the child they had prayed for, and Allard, with his girl in Oldtown and his girl in King’s Landing and his girl in Braavos, they would all be weeping soon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ties that Bind

It had gone as Allard’s father had predicted, and had warned Lord Stannis. No, King Stannis now. “Done in the Light of the Lord”, the phrase included in the letter announcing Stannis Baratheon’s claim to the Iron Throne, had been a point of contention, even here in Braavos, where any and all religions and gods were allowed to flourish, even R’hllor.

_Or perhaps especially in Braavos, where no religion reigns supreme_ , he revised his thought.

“Does he mean to take this Lord of Light as the only religion of the Seven Kingdoms, should he win the Iron Throne?” Allard had been asked that question over and over again while delivering the letters. And from people in the Free Cities, who would not be ruled by Stannis Baratheon, should he proved to be victorious. He wondered what kind of reaction his father and brother Dale was receiving from the denizens of the Seven Kingdoms.

_How does he hope to gain support for his claim to the throne_? Allard groused, as he made his way to Anya’s house. They were sailing back to Dragonstone the next day, and the rest of the men were staying at an inn in town.

_And then what? When will we sail for King’s Landing? Will I ever see Anya again?_ War meant deaths, Allard knew, even for the victorious side. And victory seemed not only out of reach, but also out of sight for Stannis Baratheon.

He resolved to put that thought aside. It was his last night with Anya, and he wanted to relish it as much as possible.

She was a widow, and a merchant, trading garments and fabrics, a trade she inherited from her late husband. But Anya had made more of a success of it than he ever did. “Allard’s girl in Braavos,” his brother Maric had called her. In truth, she was no more a girl than he was a boy. She was a woman, fully and completely, with everything that word conveyed.

She was also the only one of the three who had no interest in marrying him. Her late husband had been a tyrant, and Allard suspected that she loved being her own lord and master too much to risk another husband.

“Only if you are willing to settle down in Braavos,” she had said one night, after a particularly long and delightful romp in bed. But he knew it was not a serious proposition.

“What would I do here?” He had asked anyway, in the spirit of jest.

“Well, I could always use another seamstress,” she had answered, her teeth nibbling on his earlobe.

“Tempting. Very tempting. But I think I will stick to captaining ships, thank you.”

Her only son was of an age with Allard’s youngest brother. He had never met him. “My life has many separate parts,” she had said. Allard had always entered her house through a side door, up the stairs into a guest bedroom. Not her bedroom.

“I don’t want my son walking in on us.”

It was an airy, comfortable room, looking out to the harbor. His ship _Lady Marya_ was not a big enough galley to be seen from the window, but if Stannis’ ship _Fury_ had been docked there, Allard was certain he would have been able to see it from the room.

_She probably had other men here_ , he thought. _And I have other women in other ports. We are not naive, and this is not the Seven Kingdoms._

It had not turned out to be a joyful night after all. His anxiety about the coming war and the fate of his father and brothers, his anger over the burning of the Seven, all combined to lead to a less than satisfactory feat from him. He had felt embarrassed, and disappointed. Anya seemed amused more than anything.

_But not sympathetic, or pitying_ , _thank the gods_ , he thought.

“I have never taken you for a religious man. Why should it matter what god Stannis Baratheon decides to worship?” She suddenly asked. _  
_

“He can take himself as a god, and worship his own self for all I care. It’s the burning of the Seven, destroying the septs, forcing everyone at Dragonstone to take R’hllor as their god and abandon the gods of their ancestors, that's the problem.”

He sighed. They had spoken of this, and other matters, in the days before. He had no wish to bore her with his resentments. They tried again, and this time, he was only slightly less successful.

“Sleep, and rest. Perhaps in the morning-“, she said, kissing him on his forehead.

_A kiss on the forehead instead of the lips_ , he despaired. Like kissing her son goodnight, probably. _Well, that should bode well for tomorrow._

He woke up before dawn the next morning. Watched her sleeping face next to him, calm and untroubled. His ship was not leaving until noon. _Plenty of time_ , he thought.

He pondered her question the night before. Why should it matter?

_For one thing, it matters because Dale, Matthos, Maric and I prayed to the Seven, every night when Father was at sea. And he always came home. Safe and sound._

Except for the time he came home with four less finger joints. The fingers Stannis Baratheon had taken, punishment for all Davos Shorthand’s years of smuggling. His father had kept the bones with him always.

_For luck. For my four sons. One for each of them._

This was when Davos and Marya Shorthand had only four sons. Before they were Seaworths. Before his father was knighted, reward for smuggling onions and salted fish to Storm’s End, saving Stannis and his men from starving to death. Stannis Baratheon. The giver and the taker. Reward and punishment.

They were six, Shorthands all of them. And then three more sons had come. After the knighthood, after the land, after his father had taken the name Seaworth. Devan, Stannis and Steffon were always Seaworths, from birth. The sons of a knight, from birth.

It was more complicated for Dale, Matthos, Maric and himself. _We were the sons of a smuggler, and then we were the sons of a knight._ It was like a family cleaved into two parts. Before and after.

He pondered how different the experience growing up was, the four of them and the three youngest boys. And wondered too, if that was the way things were, with Stannis and his younger brother Lord Renly. The much younger Lord Renly, growing into adulthood after his eldest brother became king, appointed Lord of Storm’s End when he was eight.

Allard’s older brother Dale had thought it strange, that the Baratheon brothers could not work it out between themselves, aligning to defeat the Lannisters, the true enemy.

“They are not brothers the way we are brothers,” Allard had replied.

“Lord Renly is in the wrong. He has no lawful claim to the throne over his older brother,” Dale had continued.

Allard was not so certain. The Baratheons were never meant to be kings, the late King Robert had led a rebellion. Where was his lawful claim then?

“If it was not for the rebellion, and King Stannis, Father would not have been knighted. You and Dale would not be captaining ships right now,” said Matthos, the quiet one, the one people called their father’s shadow, and not only because he served with him on _Black Betha._

“You are only repeating father’s words,” Allard snapped.

“But it is true,” chimed Maric.

Allard stared at Maric incredulously. “Oh not you too! It’s bad enough that Devan is a one-man Stannis Baratheon worshiping army. Now you and Matthos too.”

The four of them had always retained a sense of unease and skepticism towards Stannis Baratheon, Towards the man who held so much of their father’s loyalty. Who took so much of his time and energy.

Or at least they all did, in the beginning. 

Maric’s conversion had felt like the worst betrayal. Maric had been the brother who never took things too seriously. Who had been the most scornful of Stannis Baratheon’s joyless rigidity. Dutiful, responsible Dale; brash, reckless Allard; earnest, melancholic Matthos; funny, joyful Maric. That was how others saw them, superficially at least. And it was not far from the truth, even if it was not the entire truth.

But Maric had changed, ever since he had been assigned as the oarmaster of _Fury_ , Stannis’ ship. He and Dale had worked their way up together on _Wraith_ , but after Dale was given his captaincy of _Wraith_ , Stannis Baratheon had taken him off that ship.

_Presumably because he thought a brother commanding another would cause discord_ , Allard thought. _We are not all like the Baratheon brothers, my lord. Some brothers can get along.  
_

It had amazed Allard that spending more time with Stannis Baratheon would make his brothers grew more fond of him. Devan since he became Stannis’ squire, Maric since he started serving on Stannis’ ship.

He and Dale had spoken alone later.

“Don’t be too hard on Maric,” Dale said.

“What happened to him? And what happened to us? We used to pray to the Seven, all four of us, for Father. Pray that he would come back safely. Pray that he was safe from harm. Pray that he was not caught and sent to the Wall, or worse.”

“It wasn’t the prayers that kept Father safe. It was his own effort and ingenuity, perhaps also luck. You know that, because neither of us was ever a true believer.”

He stared at Dale. He had always suspected this about his older brother, but the confirmation was a surprise nonetheless.

“But you were the one who made sure we prayed every night, who led us in prayers as we held hands,” Allard said.

“Because my brothers needed the comfort. Some of them needed the comfort of the words and the four of us being together,” Dale stared pointedly at Allard, before continuing, “and some of them truly believed in the power of the gods. Who am I to take that faith away from them?”

“Stannis has no trouble taking away other people’s faith to impose his own,” Allard grumbled.

“I don’t think it is his faith, the Red God, R’hllor, Lord of Light.”

“Then what is he doing?”

“He is doing what I was doing.” Dale spoke as if he had considered the question long and hard before this. “Using the gods, or god in his case, to achieve a purpose. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say, using other people’s belief in that god to achieve his purpose.”

“You used it to comfort your brothers, not to squabble over a throne,” Allard said derisively.

“A throne that is his by law, as the late king’s heir,” Dale said. That had ended the conversation.

Allard had never much liked Stannis Baratheon, but he knew he was not the only one. “Not a man to inspire love and loyalty,” he had told his mother.

“Love? No, certainly not,” his mother had agreed. “Not many can love him, kin or no kin, sworn bannermen or no sworn bannermen. But loyalty? He could inspire it.”

“By fear, you mean?” He had asked her.

“Yes, that, and by example. If he is hard on others, he is hardest on himself.”

_But what was the point of it_? Allard thought. All the self-negation and denying of pleasure. Outlawing whoring, gambling and drinking on Dragonstone, even when it was an island filled with sailors far from the comfort of home.

Easy for Stannis, he seemed like the kind of man with no appetite for those things. A hard man who derived pleasure from denying pleasures to others. A cold, unfeeling man.

Allard remembered his father telling his mother about the young man holding Storm’s End for more than a year. Not yet twenty, yet fierce and determined. The young man who did not flinch as he brought down the cleaver on his father’s hand.

He had nightmares about it afterwards, imagining what it was like for his father. “Did it hurt?” he had asked once.

“No, not at the time the cleaver fell,” Allard’s father had said. It was a clean cut, and the blade was sharp. The maester at Storm’s End had given him milk of the poppy for the pain afterwards, and tended to the wound. He had stayed in a room inside the castle, because Lord Stannis had insisted.

“If you die because the wound is not cared for properly, I will be blamed for it. You are staying here, whether you wish to or not,” Stannis had said.

His father had laughed recounting the story, but Allard thought it was horrible.

“He didn’t really care about you. He was just worried about what people might think of him.”

His father had smiled. “I don’t believe so, he is not the kind of man who put much stock in the opinion of others. Or he would not have made a low-born smuggler like me his knight, over the objections of some of his lords.”

Stannis making Devan Seaworth his royal squire had been another source of whispers and discontent among the lords. It was not just that Allard’s father was a low-born man who became a knight. There were plenty of others in that same position, elevated because of service to a lord. _Or because they were good at killing_ , Allard thought cynically.

It was because Stannis considered his father as one of his closest advisors, despite him being low-born, and not a lord. Davos Seaworth the onion knight might not have a place at the table when Stannis Baratheon met with his lords, but Stannis always demanded his presence later, to seek his counsel. The lords whispered among themselves that Stannis barely listened to their counsel, and only took Davos’ words into consideration.

Allard was jolted by a sudden realization, remembering how the King’s men, including himself and his brothers, who had not embraced R’hllor, talked about Melisandre whispering in Stannis’ ear, and how Stannis only listened to her words now.

_Even Father thinks this_ , Allard knew, _even if he never said it aloud_.

It was the same thing the lords were saying about Davos Seaworth the onion knight. Allard laughed out loud. _Father was Melisandre in the eyes of those lords long before Melisandre ever reached the shores of Dragonstone.  
_

His laughter was loud enough to wake Anya. He started kissing her, but she pushed him away.

“Stay here with me. Marry me, or don’t. You can find work with one of the trading ships. I know the owners, I have made inquiries,” her words came out in a rush.

_Where is this coming from?_ She had never spoken of wanting him to stay before.

“And it will not be a ship fighting a war.”

_Ahh, she does not want me to die._

“Why should you die for a cause you don’t believe? For a man you hold in contempt?”

“I might not die,” he smiled. “I think you’re underestimating my skills as a fighter.”

“This is not the time for jest,” she snapped.

He looked at her, long and hard. “I can’t,” he finally said. “My father, my brothers, they will never abandon Stannis Baratheon’s cause. And I cannot abandon them.”

“So you are willing to die for second-hand loyalty. Not loyalty to Stannis Baratheon, but loyalty to those loyal to him.”

“Loyalty to my family, to my blood.”

_Is that all there is to it?_ Allard wondered. _Second-hand loyalty?_

“He named it Lady Marya, the ship I captain,” he blurted out.

“Who?”

“Stannis. It was a reward for my father, for helping him defeat the Greyjoy rebellion. _Choose the name of my new war galley_. My father chose _Marya_ , my mother’s name.”

“So it was your father who named it, not Stannis.”

“No, he told my father _Marya_ would not be appropriate. Because my mother is the wife of a knight now, and it should be _Lady Marya_.”

“So you’re going to war for a cause you don’t believe because he named a ship after your mother, with the proper title?” Anya sounded incredulous.

He did not know how to make her understand, because he did not fully understand it himself. There was something in that small gesture, something defining, the measure of a man.

And there was something else too.

“Dragonstone has been closed for a year, no ships are allowed to leave. Stannis needs all the ship he can get, because he’s not getting any support from the Storm lords. But three ships left Dragonstone, my father’s, my brother Dale’s, and mine. Only those three.”

“To deliver the letters announcing his claim to the throne,” Anya replied.

“Yes, but do you not see? Of all the ships and men he commands, he trusted us three. Only us. I cannot betray that trust.”

She sighed, resigned to the inevitable. “If you die, will I even know? You will just stop coming.”

“I could stop coming because I am finally married,” he smiled.

“That’s what I will imagine then, if you stop coming. That you are alive, married, and happy. Perhaps with children of your own.”

“I could … I could ask my mother to send a letter. If …”

She laughed. “And how many letters would she have to send? To how many women?”

He blushed.

Her expression turned serious. “No, there is no need. It will be hard enough for your mother. And she might lose more than one son.”

_Anya is a mother too,_ Allard suddenly remembered.

“Is this goodbye?” she asked.

“For now.”

The morning ended on a more successful note than the previous night.


End file.
